Without The Mask
by bleak reality
Summary: Potter learns his most valuable lesson from the least likely of teachers. (One-shot)


(Contains mild slash. Don't like, don't hang around to be offended.)

_Never was and never will be if you're not real then you can't save me._

The three of them walk across the grounds, around the edge of the lake. From a distant vantage point he watches them. Wind sweeps through the grass, dancing with trees, ruffling the Mudblood's thick brown mane and scattering Weasley's part.

But Potter just faces into the breeze, smiling and tilting his head as if he's imagining himself soaring over the castle and slicing through the clouds.

Malfoy moves away from the window quietly, not a single blonde hair out of place.

*

The three of them sit as near as possible in class, flanking Potter from Slytherin attack. His dark head is bent over his work, he writes dictation with a tangled cursive, flicking inkspots across his hands.

Feeling a gaze upon him, he looks over his shoulder. He glares, narrowing green eyes against grey, upholding all expectations and prejudices.

And Malfoy glares right back, smirking when Snape halts directly in front of Potter.

*

The three of them are split now, the Mudblood cheering in the stands, Weasley guarding the posts, and Potter dancing with the wind. Again.

And the two of them are almost equal up here, with the same model broom (these days) and the same objective in mind. He loses some of his pretence at times like this.

Potter skirls around an up-draught, robes shifting as he scans the pitch, ever watchful. Near him, Malfoy hovers, just as alert, just as single minded.

A flash of gold, and lightning reflexes spark into movement. A few moments of rushing air and breathless almost-contact, then Potter soars upwards again, triumphant. Weasley punches the air and the Mudblood hugs a random friend.

Malfoy spirals down to the ground. He never has far to fall.

*

He's alone. Melancholy makes the both of them careless, resulting in this late-night encounter somewhere between the sky and the kitchens.

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

A stand-off. They're both armed, but neither really wants to be the first to draw.

"What are you doing?" the Gryffindor demands.

"Walking."

He's visibly thrown by this non violent response. Malfoy almost smiles. This torchlit hall is not like the world of the day. After its own fashion, it is as open and dangerous as the sky and the wind. The rules are open for reinterpretation.

"You're so fake Potter."

"What?"

"You're empty, false, and hollow. You're the husk of a person and I don't even think you know it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" but for all his bravado, the chinks show. He backs to the wall, mouth parted and eyes a shade too wide.

One layer breached, don't stop now.

"You think you're so perfect don't you? But you're just pretending. All those stories of your _bravery_ and _strength_," he layers the words with scorn, "They're all lies."

Truth shows stark behind Potter's glasses, hidden fears ripped into the open. "I'm only human."

"But that's not what they need. They need you to _be the hero. Not just pretend. For real."_

"What do you care? You hate me."

"_You_ hate _me Potter. I just follow orders."_

Something like a real emotion floods his gaze, "You little – "

"You want to beat me Potter? You want to finally give me my just desserts?" Malfoy curls his lip in his most eloquent sneer. "You wouldn't know where to start."

"Just try me," one hand goes for his wand.

"You'll need more than that. Even with every hex you know, this empty shell isn't enough to strike me down. And if you can't defeat me, how can you hope to defeat Him?"

"Voldemort?" the name is branded on the air. Malfoy flinches instinctively. Potter leaps at the advantage, demanding answers.

"Who are you to tell me what I am, when you're scared of a simple name? Who are you to judge character when you can't stand up to your father, let alone an enemy?"

Malfoy forgets his wand, opting instead for fists. Flesh collides with stone, tumbling to the floor and rolling one over the other. Skin tears, blood smears across knuckles. Potter grips two wrists in one hand, and levels his wand with the other.

"I _hate_ you Malfoy," the words hiss like a curse through his teeth.

"Almost Potter," he has the audacity to smile, with his arms pinned above his head and holly at his throat. "This is better than nothing, but still not enough."

"I have no idea what you're on about you little ferret – "

"Oh yes you do Potter. You're just loath to admit that I know you better than you know yourself."

Wood jabs into the hollow of his jaw, forcing his head back.

"Touched a nerve did I? You've got so much to learn."

"For example?"

"How to be whole. How to think, feel and believe with the power that comes of being a _real_ person. And how to hide it."

Potter laughs, but it looks like a grimace. His weight leaves Malfoy short of breath.

"You spend all this time telling me I'm incomplete, and now you tell me I have to act like I'm not real? Make up your bleeding mind."

"You haven't seen the worst you know. He'll become infinitely more powerful before the end."

"Who's end?"

"Does it matter? Either way you'll still have to be ready. And right now you're not."

"And you're going to teach me? Get lost Malfoy."

He surprises them both with a genuine grin. "If you weren't sitting astride me that'd be a lot easier."

"If I let you up you'll hex me in the back."

"So little trust Potter," he chuckles low in his throat. The vibrations thrum through the wand.

"Why should I trust you?"

"I know you."

"I _hate_ you."

"We've been over that already."

Potter leans down, eyes narrowed to slits. "Give one good reason for me not to beat you into a pulp then obliviate you and leave you for Filch."

He smiles sadly. "Poor hollow boy. Don't you learn at all?"

"_Malfoy_ – "

He raises his head and presses his mouth against Potter's. The hand around his wrists clenches tighter, his bones almost creak. Potter makes some sound, as if in protest, but he is nothing if not heavier above him. Malfoy arches his spine, speaking a language far older than Latin and far less dead. Potter responds with his teeth.

The contact breaks. Potter loosens his hold on his captive's wrists, but doesn't let him up.

"Simultaneously your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness," Malfoy whispers through bruised lips.

"What about you?" Potter murmurs back, his voice low.

"I know how to guard myself."

Ever so slowly they untangle and get to their feet. Potter slips his wand back into his belt and Malfoy retrieves his from the floor. There is a pause before the Gryffindor meets the Slytherin's eyes.

"This doesn't mean I hate you any less. You're still a ferrety little git."

"And you still have much to learn."

"So what's changed?"

"You now know how much you _don't know."_

"Am I ever going to get a straight answer out of you?"

"You have no subtlety."

Malfoy turns his back, walking calmly back the way he came. Potter watches him go, flickering torchlight streaking his hair with gold.

"Goodnight then."

"Sweet dreams Potter."

_I know the truth now, I know who you are._

(Quotes purposefully mis-quoted from Evanescence's "Everybody's Fool" in order to suit this fic.)


End file.
